I don't remember what this was titled. Gets heavy though.

"The Dancer believes that his art has something to say which cannot be expressed in words or in any other way than by dancing... there are times when the simple dignity of movement can fulfill the function of a volume of words. There are movements which impinge upon the nerves with a strength that is incomparable, for movement has power to stir the senses and emotions, unique in itself. This is the dancer's justification for being, and his reason for searching further for deeper aspects of his art."

I should be writing when I'm not dancing. Perhaps I'll use this as a warmup of sorts.

I've been under a roof with constant warm food and protien for four nights now. My body is beginning to recover, muscle mass is beginning to return. I feel stronger everyday, even though I've been dancing myself to the point of exhaustion every day..... It's been wonderious. Mysteriously wonderful.

I feel like a factory worker dancing in a lighbulb factory. Lit up. By light bulbs. I still can't feel my right pinky due to train hopping mishap in southern Washington state. Oh no, they're onto me.

I've still got the impression that there are those who know more than they should. I suggest a pseudonym. I believe that's how it's spelled. I had to look at it for a california minute to figure out if it looked right. I'm referring of course, to a false name. A name that is not the same as the legal corporation that your legal name "in capitus maximus paranoias", or whatever it's called sounds like. It could be similar, but doesn't have to be. New name. Check. New birthdate. Check. Lose ID. Check.

Now, I'm not suggestion. Not a suggestion. Not suggesting that you go about and change your name. But it could be fun, couldn't it? Then, perhaps there'd be less of a connection between you and your actions. Or the "you" in the "legal" sense of the "word" and your "action" in the "literal" sense of the "word". If you could have heard the pronunciation of those words. Said in my mind with such a ferocious accentuation. I'm not even sure if I'm using real words any more. Any more than I was once.

Could he perhaps be hiding gems within the random ranting of the written word?

Had you stopped to ask yourself that.

I have a theory. It's a fairly simple theory. It references experience and the thought patterns, or even actual thoughts if actual is a word that can be used to describe thoughts. Is there a connection between what a person puts into their mind and the thoughts that the mind produces? Novel experience leading to creative thought. Or thoughts.

I was going to conduct a so called "thought experiment" in which I showed that the person cannot have the thought "I dislike *Paradigm X* until she has come into contact with this paradigm.

What the fuck am I even doing? Sending these thoughts to the vast unknown of the internet. There is literally no real-world reward for this behaviour. It is useless. Completely pointless. Filing hours of my day. Under the W folder, for wasted. Back under this roof, I'm bored. And I can only dance for so many hours per day. I get uber-tired.

So if you're reading this, fuck you. Go do something. Spend one less hour searching facebook or blogging or whatever it is that we're doing on this screen and spend that hour getting better at something, you'd be incredibly good at something. And, if there's one thing I've learned today, it's that a +1 to blogging skill is not going to make a huge lick of difference anywhere.

The week I fell.

This week I fell. Down, down down.

There are so many things I could put in this post, but i fear that the internet lords of Google.com will control my thoughts forever if I put them here.

I've learned about anarchism. No, not the "fuck the system" schwilly kids that litter the streets of every major city in the world. Claiming that the only way to change the system is to buy the two most taxed items on the face of the earth. Tobacco and Alcohol. I mean real Anarchism. The kind that's going to eventually get me and a whole lot of other people into some trouble when the government starts causing more trouble than they're worth.

The trouble is, they're way past the tipping point, in my opinion. And nowhere is this more obvious than in the dominated states of no-opinion. Civil liberty is not something that the average american is familiar with. Mostly because, they for some reason have no desire for it. Much like the average Canadian, they're plugged in (to the internet, music, their phone, ect) most of the time, and are extremely effective at ignoring the world around them. This is a good thing for the average north american, becuase they're lives are often extremely dull, leading to the classic "cow eye syndrome" found in the extremely bored and extremely medicated. Also cows. It's that glassy disconnect, perhaps hinting at their prayers that since they've been so good in this life, that the afterlife is sure to be heaven.

BUT WAIT!?!?!?

What's this? A happy person? Oh NO! DOES NOT COMPUTE!? Head down. He's just another one of those homeless people anyways.

I like to go to centers of higher education and look for smart people and religious institutes looking for enlightened individuals. I rarely find either at either building. I said one EYE-thur and one EE-thur. It makes that sentence a little less ugly.

Oh, I'm in Arizona. The state where you go to jail for having any weed. ANY! I've been baked for two days straight though. NARF NARF!!! Fucking cops. ALWAYS FUCKING WITH ME! In california anyways, they were always fucking with me, here I've only gotten in trouble once. They said that my breakdancing on the street was causing a distrubance. It took four cops to get me out and I threw a couple disses their way before I peaced out.

On the subject of getting in trouble for dancing, last night I got into a couple clubs for free. In the first club, I was the first person on the dance floor, but the music sucked so I was kinda just playing around, you know. "Normal" dancing. I would hear a song I like and bust out for a little bit, but nothing too crazy. I really wanted to kill it. No challengers or real spectators. Actually I did have a couple speccies, but still decided not to bust it out. Soon there's people dancing everywehere. Girls humping, the whole lot.

Tap. Tap. My left shoulder gets touched.

"yes?" I politely ask the roided up bouncer who's touched me. There are two of them. I can smell the hair gel and insecurity ironically displayed in the security gaurd.

You have to leave

Why?

You have to leave

WHY?!

We have the right to refuse service to anyone

YOU GUYS ARE PUSSIES! --I can be such an imbocile when I'm angry, feel slighted. Disrespected.

As I'm walking out however. I slow down. On beat. As always. but on every fourth (or whatever), I turn and front right in these guys faces. You should have seen them, my two faithful readers. Two grown men, flinching every time I pop. Pop / flinch. Pop / flinch. They wanted to hit me so bad.

I'm on the street. Figure I'll give the club thing one more try.

I go to this place that's also adertising no cover that night. Last night. Thursnight. I walk up to the bouncer at the front door. Super nice looking huge black guy. It's never the big dogs that wanna fight, but those little motherfuckers never shut up. Good thing we don't give steroids to little dogs. Then we'd have muscular people with little dog syndrome. Jesus.

Are you going to kick me out for breakdancing?

He laughs. No.

So, I can go in there and breakdance and you're not going to kick me out?

Laughter again, yeah man.

Fuck yeah.

He checks my backpack and I go inside. Beats a little slow for all out breaking but after I set my things down and remove a couple layers (mistake) I start putting on a popping session for all the little school children who have come to the bar looking for some random hook ups as they do every thursnight at this time. Oh, there's also a girl on a pole. They watched me.

Tap. Tap.

Come outside with me. Says another huge black bouncer. They must breed well. I follow him outside. Just as I open the door I look past the bouncer at like four more of them. Situation assesed, I respectfully listen to what the man has to say.

We have a dress code. Hygien. You have to leave.

Oh shit! My bad, yeah that's fair enough. I turn back inside.

Why are you going back inside?

All my shit's in there.

Okay.

As I take two steps inside, I pretend to trip, catch myself on the ground with my right foot, roll forwards onto a stab and roll again onto a half a knee spin then gracefully stand back up and continue my walk as though nothing happened.

I collect my things and walk-pop out of the club.

Total time in clubs, 1 hour.

Possible competition from bitches? None.